


The Trash Pile

by AptGoodTouch



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, AU everywhere, Drabble Collection, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AptGoodTouch/pseuds/AptGoodTouch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One is smol, one is not. Also I really like wrecking First Aid.</p>
<p>This crackpair has taken over my life and here will be my drabbles for it. Ratings, tags, and summaries will be given in the first chapter/table of contents. Actual works will be posted starting with chapter 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cytokiine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cytokiine/gifts).



> As always, I will do my best to think of tags, but let me know if something needs to be added to a work.

 

 

* * *

 

 

1) [The Right Thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4549086/chapters/10355043) (1585 words) 

            Rating: T

            Characters: First Aid, Ratchet, Predaking

            Tags: Imprisonment, Poisoning, Comfort, Injections/Needles, Canon-Typical Violence

            Summary: It seemed simple enough; retrieve the frozen Predacon, prevent its tech from falling into the wrong hands. But First Aid didn’t plan for what would happen afterwards, and now he has to fix things. 

 

2) [Every Need](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4549086/chapters/10398087) (1796 words)

            Rating: E

            Characters: First Aid, Predaking

            Tags: Sticky Sex, Oral Sex, Mentions of Knotting, Barbed Spike

            Summary: While the other Autobots work to negotiate with the predacons, a certain medic puts his mouth to work in a different type of diplomacy. 

3) [I'm Naming Him PK](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4549086/chapters/10440987) (838 words)

            Rating: G

            Characters: Shockwave, First Aid, Predaking

            Tags: College AU, Fluff, Bab Predaking

            Summary: Shockwave’s latest side-project is hatching. It’s adorable. 

4) [Good Enough to Eat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4549086/chapters/10497384) (887 words)

            Rating: M

            Characters: First Aid, Predaking

            Tags: Major Character Death, Aftermath of Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Hard Vore, Vore, Literally gets eaten by a dragon okay

            Summary: His processor swam, his frame loose and aching as the pair of Vehicons dragged him down a seemingly never-ending series of halls. Faint trails of blue marred the floors where his plating scraped, energon leaking from the layers of wounds that had left him little more than a battered heap of a medic.

5) [Sit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4549086/chapters/10608435) (920 words)

            Rating: M

            Characters: First Aid, Predaking

            Tags: Dancer AU, Sex Work, Sticky Sex, They Bang Off Screen

            Summary: “Come, First Aid. Sit in my lap like a good little mech.” 

6) [stuck in a cave(tm)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4549086/chapters/11551747) (4337 words)

            Rating: E

            Characters: First Aid, Predaking

            Tags: canon typical violence, stuck in a cave™, dodgy predacon biology & aphrodesiacs, noncon/dubcon, sticky, oral sex, somewhat rough sex, barbs/knotting


	2. The Right Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed simple enough; retrieve the frozen Predacon, prevent its tech from falling into the wrong hands. But First Aid didn’t plan for what would happen afterwards, and now he has to fix things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Characters: First Aid, Ratchet, Predaking  
> Tags: Imprisonment, Poisoning, Comfort, Injections/Needles, Canon-Typical Violence

Night set in above the Autobot base.

 

Thin clouds skudded against a starry backdrop as everyone settled in. The humans had been escorted home, their guardians retreated to their habsuites one by one, stretching their struts and idly chattering to each other as they vanished down darkened hallways. Ratchet rubbed his optics, stifling a yawn as he glanced across their makeshift medbay towards First Aid. He seemed absorbed in a data pad, rapidly typing away despite the late hour.

 

Ratchet coughed. The young medic glanced up.

 

“Don’t forget to feed the lizard before you recharge,” Ratchet said, jerking a thumb towards the pile of off-blue energon cubes stacked inside a containment chamber.

 

“You got it, Ratch.”

 

First Aid replied without glancing up. At least, as far as Ratchet could tell; the mech never removed his visor or faceplate.

 

Shrugging, Ratchet flicked off his station and groaned as he stood, struts popping. First Aid thought he heard a muttered _Too old for this_ as the old medic slowly made his way down the hall and vanished into the depths of the base, leaving First Aid the only mech awake.

 

Well, except for the ‘lizard.’

 

Another cycle ticked by before First Aid made his final notes and locked his data pad. Moonlight streamed in through the narrow band of windows near the ceiling, the only light once First Aid powered down his station and clicked off the overheads. Silver played over his plating as he keyed in the code and retrieved one of the special cubes, his own red biolights dull on its sickly surface. He moved on autopilot from there, optics glossed over in familiarity as he unlocked the passage to another hallway; deeper, more secure even than their own habsuites. The humans had never been this way, had certainly never come as far as the heavy steel door that sat alone at the end, or the closed-off flightbay beyond it.

 

He stepped inside, fingers clenched tight on the energon.

 

Its inhabitant blinked up at him with blurry optics.

 

First Aid had to squeeze his optics shut, grateful once more for his visor.

 

He had been the one to convince the team to retrieve the frozen predacon from the arctic, after all, but he… hadn’t anticipated this. True, he hadn’t had a plan. They couldn’t just… let it go. It was too deadly, but he’d thought maybe… Maybe stasis. Something. He’d convinced them to not just offline the poor beast while it was frozen, had welded its chest closed to make sure they wouldn’t be able to get to its spark. That had been all the ‘care’ he’d managed to sneak it, however. The beast’s once-lustrous plating was dim with damage, as though it was still caked in frost and ice. Thick binds muzzled its snout and limbs, even tied its gorgeous wings to its sides.

 

But even as much a prisoner as it was, its tail thumped on the ground, its optics seemed that much brighter when it saw First Aid approach. Barely warm breath snuffed from its snout over his’s hands as he reached up, energon cube placed several feet back, and stroked its helm. Even weak, there was an aura of majesty around it, in those golden eyes, that took First Aid’s breath away. A diminished but awe-inspiring strength in its frame as it shuffled what little it could, nudged its horned head against the medic’s shoulder and… and purred.

 

That may as well have been a shot through the medic’s spark.

 

He wrapped his arms around its neck, pressing his cheek to the tarnished metal of its own.

 

All he had wanted was to keep it from falling into the hands of MECH or… whatever groups that remained that would have ripped it apart. It was a glorious, living miracle. A piece of Cybertron’s distant past resurrected. He hadn’t wanted it kept barely thawed, fed poisoned energon to ensure it would remain weak. But they didn’t have many options.

 

His faceplate snapped open. Though the predacon wouldn’t understand the gesture, First Aid kissed its cool plating, patted its neck before he slid the muzzle off its face. It shook its head and chuffed happily, licking First Aid’s exposed cheek before the little medic could duck away. A smile spread across his face as he checked its face over, made sure the muzzle wasn’t too tight.

 

And then, carefully, with one last look towards the locked door, First Aid pulled two partial cubes of sparkling, pure energon from his subspace.

 

They had been from his own rations. As much as he could reduce his own fuel intake by and not have Ratchet grow suspicious, saved up since he had decided that they simply couldn’t keep the predacon like this. Shockwave would find it if eventually, and their base with it, he’d reasoned. Too much of a risk.

 

He set the cubes on the floor, easily within reach of its fanged mouth and listened to it sniff and nudge them as he walked around it, deft fingers loosening each bond on its legs, the ones pinning its wings to its sides. Each just loose enough that the predacon would be able to break free with a fraction of its true strength, but not so easily that his meddling would be obvious.

 

He allowed himself to fret over them, optics flicking back and forth between his work and the door until he convinced himself it was time for the next step. The predacon was used to First Aid tutting over its bonds, his hands wandering over and between every angle of its armor. He let himself settle into tracing the familiar pathways: dim biolights stirring under his touch, stroking its plates back into place when they flared, wires tightly bunched with disuse that he massaged loose before moving on. Those in its shoulders and wings received special care tonight. He waited, humming, subtly parting the wires as he worked them until… there. Barely visible in the moonlight, a thick fuel line.

 

Doing his best to ignore the trusting purr rumbling beneath his fingers, he slid out a syringe, its contents glowing a sickly neon green. Almost too scared to breathe, he popped off the cap and slid the needle in, injecting the predacon with the steroid with one swift, practiced movement.

 

It didn’t notice.

 

First Aid stuffed the empty syringe back into his subspace. His spark whirled frantic and worried in his chest, beat hard in his audials as his processor raced. Hopefully he had given it enough. It needed enough of a boost that it would be able to fly home despite its heavy damage.

 

But all he could do was wait and see.

 

He laid his head against its flank and did his best to hide the nervous tremors running through his frame. Calmed himself by listening to its deep spark beat, the fuel pumping sluggishly through its lines, the mechanisms of its throat swallowing, carrying energon down to its fuel tank. It ate slowly; the fuel would be rich, maybe unbearably so after the poisoned mix. He only hoped it would be able to eat enough before… His vents hitched.

 

Its plating felt _warm_. Flecks of green swirled through its biolights.

 

The medic rose. He turned his head and was greeted by the predacon’s clearing optics. Shaking as he was, First Aid didn’t hesitate to ease its head down, gently tugging on its plating so he could kiss the end of its nose.

 

“You are just… _magnificent_ ,” he breathed. Sparks mixed in with each breath it exhaled. As much as he wanted to marvel at the efficiency of the synth-en, record how its ancient systems responded, he didn’t have the time.

 

“A king like you deserves better. Get back to the Nemesis.” First Aid patted one of its horns, backing away. The slits of its optics focused on him with terrifying intensity and by _Primus_ it took everything in his spark not to run. Its friendly purrs rumbled like growls as it struggled to its feet, snapping its bonds like string, wings flopping uncoordinated on either side.

 

All the while, it kept its bewildered gaze fixed on him. It almost looked afraid. Torn between fear and fury. Its fangs parted as it panted, wobbling as it straightened up. And then. It spread its wings.

 

Its horns gleamed in the moonlight, a crown of spikes atop its raised helm. Veins of pulsing green and gold burned down its sinuous body. No tremors plagued its frame. Those optics glimmered with primal rage, focused entirely on the _prey_ that stood vulnerable before it.

 

First Aid couldn’t wait any longer. He ran.

 

It howled behind him, the air boiling hot.

 

He barely made it to the door. Sickle claws sliced through the metal behind him like jelly, grazing his back a mere second before the wall shuddered, the predacon slamming against it. Its screaming roar shuddered through the metal all the way down to First Aid’s protoform. Flames licked through the gashes, billowing smoke, charring and heating the metal nearly liquid-hot.

 

And then it was gone.

 

Faintly, he heard metal rend and buckle. Another roar that grew faint, the beating of massive wings. Thudding filled First Aid’s audials as he stood there, unaware of the energon dribbling down his back. His breaths came rough and uneven. His spark felt like a glitchmouse trying to scrabble free of his chest.

 

But… As his teammates ran down the hall, shouting his name, he realized he was smiling.


	3. Every Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the other Autobots work to negotiate with the predacons, a certain medic puts his mouth to work in a different type of diplomacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: E  
> Characters: First Aid, Predaking  
> Tags: Sticky Sex, Oral Sex, Mentions of Knotting, Barbed Spike

The medic cringed as the door closed, the other two predacons leaving him and their king alone in the suite. They had grinned at him, fangy and crooked as they left, and now. Now their king lay on the berth before him, optics swimming with mischief and delight as they ate up First Aid’s small frame. He patted a clawed hand on the soft covers.

 

“Come, medic,” he purred, lazy grin on his face.

 

First Aid sighed openly. He had drawn the short straw. Which meant that for the last few days, he had been at the beck and call of the visiting predacons, trying to make sure their stay was comfortable as the other bots tried hashing out agreements with them.

 

The least Predaking could do would be remember his name, but no.

 

He took his time meandering to the berthside, making sure to cross his arms and pointedly look down at the normally much taller mech. Really, the image of Predaking reclined, armored, shining frame relaxed and open, wasn’t one he’d normally object to. He was just. So… _wide._ But there was only so much arrogance he could take.

 

And the way those claws of his were tracing up and down Predaking’s stomach, dipping just a touch lower than was appropriate…

 

“This isn’t my job, Predaking.” He didn’t even wait to huff his objection.

 

The predacon just laughed.

 

“Ah, but _First Aid_ , I thought you were to make sure our _every_ need was met?”

 

He spread his armored thighs, his claws sliding down to his interface panelling. First Aid could feel the heat rush to his face. His fingers tightened on his arms. Those claws glinted, sharp and lethal, tracing lazy patterns and dipping into seams. He forced himself to look away.

 

A soft click sounded through the room. First Aid went still. Predaking rumbled out a low growl as he squeezed his optics shut.

 

“Look at me.” His voice was rough. The tone that of a lover bent over their partner, purring into their audial. It sent a shiver down the medic’s spinal strut.

 

First Aid cracked open an optic. Hidden behind his visor, Predaking would never know he looked, right? He could just… Openly, obviously stare at him. The predacon king, splayed on the berth, lazily stroking his own thick spike. His claws traced over golden biolights and defined ridges, dipping into them, dragging up the underside of his shaft over a series of circular nodes that went all the way up to the tip. The tip already dripped with thick fluid.

 

_Primus, he’s gorgeous._ The medic bit his lip hard behind his mask. His fingers twitched on his arms and his thighs pressed together. Just slightly. But it was impossible to see that thickness, see Predaking’s lidded optics staring so intently at him and _not_ feel warmth stir behind his panels. A stab of want through his systems.

 

He swore. And oh if that slagger’s smirk didn’t grow. Predaking stroked himself slowly and raised his free hand, curling one claw. Beckoning.

 

“Come.”

 

First Aid vented hard. But he couldn’t resist clambering up on the berth between his armored legs, couldn’t resist tracing the curves of his plating as he settled between his thighs. He was warmer than a standard Cybertronian. The composition of his armor, too, was different. His medical sensors fed him a stream of data, but. It was hard to focus on when his optics just wanted to watch the fluid oozing from his tip.

 

One of Predaking’s hands stroked his arm. The two mechs moved as one; Predaking shifting his clawed hand to the back of First Aid’s head and pushing him down, the medic withdrawing his faceplate just in time for the predacon to shove his mouth onto his heavy spike. First Aid moaned around him, taking him in both hands before he pulled back and smoothly bobbed down, tongue pressed to the nodes studding his spike. Predaking growled above him and twitched in his mouth. His claws tightened their grip, urging the medic to take more, nudging the back of his tight throat before he paused, venting and panting openly. His forceful grasp softened, stroking the medic’s helm as he bobbed and hummed around his spike. Hot and delicious. Each flutter of First Aid’s throat made him want to hold him tight, buck his hips and frag his mouth, overload all over that beautiful little face.

 

Except then. Then those hands began to move. Skilled medic hands tracing each ridge shamelessly as he lathed him with his tongue, pulled back and sucked wetly on his tip, on the nodes just below his head. His fingers pumped him, caressed the thick knot at his base. And all the while the medic made soft noises of want. Predaking could _smell_ his desire.

 

Too much. He held his head tight, panting, and pulled his mouth off him, shuddering at the pop, the strand of saliva that connected the medic’s mouth to his tip.

 

“Relax your throat for me,” he purred. First Aid licked his slick lips.

 

Predaking pressed him down slowly; relished the feel of his dull little teeth, his tongue pressing up against him, the way his throat clenched and struggled as he forced his spike in all the way to the knot. He held him there. Unmoving, panting, daring to take a moment and feel First Aid’s throat. Feel the bulge of himself there, felt the medic’s saliva dribbling down his knot.

 

And then he fragged him.

 

Neither of them bothered to be quiet. First Aid’s cries were muffled, his fingers clenched in the sheets and on his thighs. Predaking let each growl of pleasure out without hesitation, groaning and sighing as he rammed into the mech’s tight throat.

 

The temptation to force those lips beyond his knot, to let his barbs lock into the soft mesh of his throat was hard to resist. First Aid felt him growing rougher, felt the nodes along the bottom of his spike shifting as he gasped around him. He expected him to hold him down, force him to swallow his transfluid and purred around him, looking up at the predacon’s flushed face, petted his thigh.

 

But as charge skittered over Predaking’s frame, as First Aid moaned and stroked him with trembling hands, the predacon shuddered. And pulled out. First Aid gasped, saliva and fluid coating his mouth. Predaking’s spike so slick before his face, its owner trembling as he ran a shaking claw up his shaft.

 

“J-Just. Your mouth. Drink my transfluid, Autobot.”

 

Later, he’d deny that he moaned as the predacon commanded him. Filled with eagerness as he sucked on his tip, mouthing at his slickness and lapping up the leaking fluid like a starving mech while Predaking stroked himself. And when his overload shuddered through his thick frame, First Aid swallowed every last drop. Felt his claws on his helm as he gasped and bucked up shallowly, his mouth full of hot fluid as he gulped it down.

 

He didn’t pull back until he stroked up his spike one last time, felt one last shiver in Predaking’s frame. First Aid licked his lips, panting as he examined him up close.

 

“O-Oh.”

 

_That_ was why Predaking had pulled out. His fingers stroked down him, just beside the spots he had thought were nodes, which now. Now had become a row of curved barbs. Barbs that would have been impossible to pull out of his throat. As the charge over his strong frame dispersed, First Aid examined him. Gently stroked and mouthed at him, at his barbs, examined his knot.

 

“They are. To keep our mates engaged.”

 

First Aid looked up. Predaking’s face was flushed, his lips parted as he panted. His face coiled into a smug grin as he ran a claw down the side of his spike.

 

“I did not think you would enjoy them down your throat.”

 

The medic couldn’t help but laugh. He pressed a kiss to his spike, licking the head clean before he withdrew. The heat in his frame was all too obvious now. Worse in a way was the warm fullness of his tank, filled not with fuel but with predacon transfluid. But before the shimmers of arousal left his frame, Predaking shifted. Suddenly closer, his claws tipping First Aid’s face upwards. Heat still rolled off him. First Aid’s optics focused on the part of Predaking’s lips, the glimpse of his jagged fangs behind them.

 

“You have truly performed admirably, First Aid. Tell me; spike or valve?”

 

First Aid’s face blushed even deeper. Words stuttered from his mouth. The predacon was too close, his own frame too warm.

 

“W-What? No, no. I. Nothing is necessary really, I--” He yelped, suddenly on his back on the berth, pinned beneath the purring beast.

 

“If you will not answer, I’ll just have to find out myself, won’t I?”

 

Their claws held his waist, keeping him still as they kissed their way down his frame. It was all too easy for them to pry his legs open and dive between them, nibbling and licking, growling openly against his plating to send delicious vibrations straight up into his valve and make First Aid’s thighs press and tremble on either side of his helm. He covered his mouth, moaning into his hands as claws dug into the gaps in his plating and hot, hot breaths came against his saliva-coated panels.

 

Predaking rumbled one last growl, dragging his tongue up him slow and leisurely. First Aid let his helm fall back, moaning and squirming as his valve was bared to the king’s attentive mouth. He showed no hesitation in burying his face in his wet folds, tongue diving into him and lapping up his lubricants as if they were the finest energon he’d ever tasted.

 

All it took to send him over the edge was their lips around his node. A deep suck, their tongue teasing him, and one thick claw pressing into him and crooking. Just right.

 

First Aid screamed as he overloaded, wrapping his legs around Predaking’s horned helm. His little hands pushed him down into his valve as he bucked up, grinding against his face, riding out his overload without shame.

 

And oh. Ohh. His moans trailed into gasps as Predaking lapped up each drop. So thorough, so slow that by the time the predacon pulled up, his face a wet mess of fluids, charge was skittering over both their frames once more. Their optics met. Plating flared to release heat from both of them, fans whirring.

 

The medic didn’t object at all as Predaking lunged forward, hot spike nudging against his legs. He objected even less as the king pounded him into the berth.

  
Fortunately, the barbs were much more enjoyable locked inside his valve.


	4. I'm Naming Him PK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Shockwave’s latest side-project is hatching. It’s adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Characters: Shockwave, First Aid, Predaking  
> Tags: College AU, Fluff, Bab Predaking
> 
> (Forgive me, I needed a break from my dozen porn WIPs. And baby predacons are my weakness.)

First Aid and Shockwave, on the surface, appeared to be the odd couple of roommates. First Aid: a star of the medical program, known for his charity work and chipper attitude, a friend to any who asked for help… and apparent fan of the college sports teams. Friends with all his professors, who generally agreed that he would be going great places, if his interests didn’t distract him too badly.

 

And then Shockwave.

 

His future greatness couldn’t be argued. The young scientist had already proven brilliant; his course load was nothing short of suicidal, and yet he still managed to find time to work on his own boundary pushing projects while acing every test in his path. But there was much more doubt about where he would be heading. His interests not so much dipped into morbid as rolled in it, legality an annoying prick in his side that only served to make him learn every loophole he could. If he had every done a charitable deed, there was no doubt he had his own veiled reasons for attending.

 

Yet the two had been roommates for years. They had been randomly paired in their second year, and had apparently found nothing to complain about in the arrangement. When asked, First Aid would shrug, and simply say that they could appreciate each other’s respect for study habits and quiet. They were both very busy students, after all, and their similar lack of sleep meant that they fell into an easy habit of checking in on the other, delivering energon to the other early in the morning at their desks.

 

It was on one of those nights that First Aid, two steaming mugs held before him, knocked on Shockwave’s door and let himself in. The piled machinery and data pads were nothing new, but as he inched around one pile--reminding himself to clean it on the way out, and nudge Shockwave towards the outside world at least once this decacycle--he paused, optics widening at the sight before him.

 

His roommate sat motionless next to his berth, a purple shadow in the dim light. The red of his single optic focused on one unmistakeable, twitching egg, as big as First Aid’s head, nestled in a makeshift incubator.

 

The mugs were abandoned on the desk, First Aid settling in next to him, optics wide and mouth open. He watched the egg rock and twitch, heard soft peeps from beneath the metallic shell. When he turned to Shockwave, his roommate was watching him, his optic tight and focused, his antennae perked and jittering.

 

“A clone.”

 

First Aid whistled, low and impressed. Shockwave’s hand was clenched tight on his knee, betraying his nervousness.

 

“What of?”

 

“A predacon. My previous attempts have failed, but perhaps this one will prove… viable.” He paused, antennae pressing back against his helm. “First Aid, would you be… averse to looking it over, once it has hatched?”

 

He blinked. Of all things, a _predacon_? His processor almost couldn’t handle it.

 

“Where did you even get the CNA fro--”

 

A loud peep sounded, the egg rocking hard. The two mechs went silent, watching it, listening to its small cries until, finally, the shell cracked. A wedge of shell cracking upwards, the briefest glimpse of a small nose and a demanding chirp.

 

The crack widened, slowly. Small, silver claws scrabbled and poked out, pulling away the shell, pinkish fluid dribbling out as it fought its way free, finally flopping wet and fragile onto the berth amidst the halves of its egg. Tiny, filigree-sized biolights flicked on its miniscule frame as it chirped louder, its optics alternating between offline and bright gold. Sopping leathery wings spotted with eggshell hung uncoordinated from its back, the sparkling predacon raising its head and doing its best to yell as it clawed its way towards them, snuffling and snorting.

 

First Aid, with his hands clutched before him, glanced at Shockwave, begging. He barely had a chance to nod before the medic reached out and scooped up the sparkling, cooing down at it while it peeped faster, butting its tiny head against his hand and struggling to get closer until it clung to his chest, settled over his spark. Only then did it go quiet, its soft flank rising and falling fast under his hands as he petted it, stroked down the plating of its back.

 

“It’s… amazing, Shockwave,” he breathed. Even with his medic hands, the delicacy of its wing struts scared him. Everything about it was so small. Its wing membranes were so thin he could see through them. But it was perfect. Each plate of armor, though still soft, was flawlessly formed. He pressed a finger under its front leg against its chest, and felt the frantic patter of its tiny spark.

 

They watched it cling closer, tuck its head against his chest. Heard the softest purr of its systems as it drifted off to recharge, its little claws kneading air, its wings clumsily flopped over the glass of his chest.

 

"I'm naming him PK." 


	5. Good Enough to Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His processor swam, his frame loose and aching as the pair of Vehicons dragged him down a seemingly never-ending series of halls. Faint trails of blue marred the floors where his plating scraped, energon leaking from the layers of wounds that had left him little more than a battered heap of a medic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M   
> Characters: First Aid, Predaking  
> Tags: Major Character Death, Aftermath of Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Hard Vore, Vore, Literally gets eaten by a dragon okay

             His processor swam, his frame loose and aching as the pair of Vehicons dragged him down a seemingly never-ending series of halls. Faint trails of blue marred the floors where his plating scraped, energon leaking from the layers of wounds that had left him little more than a battered heap of a medic. Wires sparked between his plating. Scorch marks and smoke coiled across his body as he drifted, too sore to register when they finally stopped. The soft beep of a security system was different enough at least to make him stir, his optics flickering online behind his shattered visor just in time to hear a door slide open and then get tossed through it.

 

            Their red visors swam against the purple light of the hall as he struggled to pull himself off the floor. His right arm felt dead, flopped numb and useless against the floor, and most of his body screamed in protest when he tried to sit up, leaving him wheezing and sobbing as the doors slid closed.

 

            It was dark here. But a breeze licked past his head, making him turn.

 

            He was on top of the Nemesis. A small flightbay sheltered him from the winds which must have whipped around the ship as it sliced through the night sky, a thick band of stars like spilled glitter shimmering above. They were entrancing. He has spent centuries with Magnus, flying from system to system and passing all manner of stars, but there were some things he felt he’d never tire of. And if he were to pick a place to offline, well… Alone on a Decepticon ship with his vital fluids leaking from him might not have been the place or manner, but at least the view would be nice.

 

            With that in mind, he wormed his way onto his side, hissing in pain as his frame shrieked its protest. He paused, venting hard, when he caught a glimpse of something bright. Bright and gold, out of the corner of his optic.

 

            A low, rumbling growl anchored him in place. Slowly, his spark thrumming an unsteady panic in its casing, he turned his head.

 

            The predacon stared right back. It must have been coiled near the wall before it rose, optics intense slits focused on the prey its owners had dumped before it. Each claw thudded sharp and glinting in the dim light as he lay frozen, too caught in terror to try and flee as it closed the short distance between them. Those fangs glinted with orange light as it sniffed him, lingering near his chest, nudging him over as though he was nothing more than a leaf as it focused its inspection right over his spark. Right over the rivulets of purest blue energon that oozed there.

 

            His innermost.

 

            It exhaled, a too-hot breath over his trembling frame and settled its massive claws on either side of him. Each one at least as long as his torso and all too capable of slicing through his compromised plating. Saliva dribbled from its maw. Silver mandibles parted as it opened its jaw wider, only for its tongue to press against his chest; hot and wet, large enough to move him along the floor as it dragged its slick tongue over him, lapping up the trickles of energon he was helpless to stem the flow of.

 

           Their claws shifted, moving just enough to pin him under one, keep him still as it continued to bathe his chest, leave his armor shining and slippery with its thick saliva. His numb arm lay unpinned at his side. All he could do was tremble, press his thighs together when its tongue lapped lower, gasp when it coiled under him, one claw hooking over his leg and tugged him open. There was no mistaking the whimpering cry from the small mech’s throat as he squirmed, trying in vain to get away from the hot, sinuous tongue pressing against his panels. Curious fangs nibbled at his shaking thighs.

 

            And then sank into his plating.

 

            The helpless mech screamed, energon spurting and bubbling up around their massive maw. Metal screeched, his systems wailing in renewed agony and then. He heard a crunch.

 

            His leg was gone.

 

            All that remained as he writhed, processor blanking in a mess of white hot pain and static, was a shredded stump. A mess of energon-soaked cabling and twisted metal. His self-diagnostics sputtered on his visor, trying in vain to give him readouts, but he forced them away. Forced himself to watch the predacon toss its head back, the flex of its throat as it swallowed and licked its fangs before its gaze returned to him. A pleased rumble built in its glowing chest as it lapped his energon off the floor.

 

            Its claw shifted, but he couldn’t crawl away. Silvery mandibles, smeared in blue, parted before its mouth; he could see down the glow of its throat, smell energon as it picked him up between his fangs. That tongue coiled around his waist, his processor a screaming wreck of muddled pleasure and pain in the heat that surrounded his body as he was pulled into its mouth, lone hand scrabbling and slipping over its fangs.

 

            And then hot, wet darkness pressed in on him, crushing his screams as the predacon swallowed him whole.

 


	6. Sit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come, First Aid. Sit in my lap like a good little mech.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Characters: First Aid, Predaking  
> Tags: Dancer AU, Sex Work, Sticky Sex, They Bang Off Screen
> 
> Check end notes for AU... notes.

Predaking leaned back on the plush couch, a smirk on his face as he patted his thickly armored thigh. The red light of the room shimmered on his plating, made his claws shine as though they were coated with energon when he beckoned to the nervous little dancer standing near the door.

 

“Come, First Aid. Sit in my lap like a good little mech.”

 

First Aid cringed, unable to resist glancing back. His false wing kibble on his back shifted down nervously--his real mods hidden and subspaced, thanks to Shockwave’s tech--and stepped forward. He was grateful to the seeker-esque heels on his feet, even if they did make him cant his hips when he stopped; they helped hide his limp.

 

“ _Please_ don’t call me that here, Predaking,” he whispered.

 

The predacon laughed. His fangs glinted, his biolights flashing in delight.

 

“Ah, but ‘Aid! I thought we had moved past this pretense of professionality! Or should I remind you…” A deep growl rumbled in his chest. He reached out, tracing one claw down First Aid’s stomach to the seam of his spike panelling. “How we enjoyed each other’s company the other night on your dear professor’s desk? I would think, surely, that your valve hasn’t forgotten the feel of my spike just yet.”

 

First Aid blushed. Oh no, he hadn’t forgotten. He was still sore, but he had _greatly_ enjoyed being on the receiving end of Predaking’s millennia of experience. It had put every other frag he’d had to shame and honestly, if they’d been somewhere more private, he would have gladly stayed in berth with him all night.

 

On the other hand… His plating puffed up, an attempt to cover up the way his biolights glimmered in interest, encouraging the predacon’s smirk even as he batted his claws away.

 

“No, I _haven’t_ forgotten! But you didn’t have to deal with Pharma ranting about someone’s _paint_ on his desk, not to mention,” his voice lowered to a hiss as he stepped forward, jabbing a finger against his stupidly attractive chest. “ _We are not supposed to interface with clients in the club!_ ”

 

But Predaking just laughed and folded his claws around First Aid’s small hand. He pressed a kiss to it, smiling wider as the dancer jerked it away.

 

“Would you like to?”

 

The dancer raised his wing kibble and huffed in outrage, ready to snap out his scalpels and bury them in some choice spots in the predacon’s armor... Gorgeous, spiky armor that had survived at least one actual apocalypse. Armor that had felt really nice and heavy against his back. Not to mention how much _skill_ Predaking had in those bulky claws; he’d played First Aid’s frame like an expert, reduced him to a pliable, whimpering puddle mere moments after splaying him over the edge of the desk.

 

Predaking leant forward, amusement all over his face. First Aid jerked his gaze away.

 

“ _Yes_ but that’s not--” He yelped, flailing as Predaking picked him up and settled him in his lap, straddling his hips. His claws fanned around his waist, holding the angry little psuedo-seeker in place as he leant in, nipping shamelessly at his neck cables and growling into his audial.

 

“You don’t have to tell Shockwave. I won’t leave a mark even _his_ inspections could find.”

 

“I’m not planning on a-ah-hh!”

 

First Aid’s words trailed off as Predaking’s claws stroked and rubbed his wings; while they might be false, they were sensitive, wired to be as accurate to a true seeker’s as they could be. And ohhhh did the predacon know just how to touch them. Sharp claw tips grazed along the edges, teased and massaged and even dove into the wiring between Aid’s flared armor. A smile split his face as his favorite dancer squirmed and muffled his whimpers against his chest. It wasn’t subtle in the least when he shoved his thigh between his legs, nor was the way his smile widened in delight at the growing warmth of his panels.

 

“Then what,” he said, yanking a wire hard enough to make him buck in his lap, “is standing in your way?”

 

“P-Pharma was ranting a-ah! An. An e-entire class period because you just. Ha--aahh! Had to bend me over the closest thing--”

 

A kiss silenced him. Slow but forceful, one powerful hand pulling him into it as his own clutched at layered armor. Felt the way it rumbled with Predaking’s deep growls. When they finally parted, both were panting and flushed, all too aware of the heat building between them. Predaking’s thumb stroked First Aid’s cheek, their lips still nearly touching.

 

“Then next time I will choose somewhere more private,” he whispered, nipping in for one last kiss on his cheek. His claws stroked back down to Aid’s waist, tugging him with him as he leant back into the couch once more.

 

“But for now-” He gave a pointed glance towards the clock on the wall. “I have half a cycle left with you before Shockwave will want you back, and if you have no more objections…?”

 

First Aid felt his blush deepen as Predaking’s interface panelling slid open. The predacon’s thick, slick spike pressurized pressed between their frames, rubbing hard against the soft mesh of his belly. Undeniably hot and demanding and… Primus, had he really taken a spike _that_ big? All he could do was stare; watch the globs of silver ooze from his tip along the deep ridges and pronounced nodes that decorated his length.

  
“ _Sit_ , First Aid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Shockwave owns the club First Aid is currently working at. He has not been empurata'd so he's basically still sketch Senator Shocky, just... not a senator. Largely he experiments with CNA and tech, such as the false kibble and tech to hide a mech's natural mods. Also included is an electronic paint job! The dancers generally appreciate all this, even if they wonder where the hell he gets all this; just how well connected are you, Shockwave. Where do you get these things. 
> 
> Predaking, as mentioned, never died. He is still original Predaking (goddamn he's old, but he has his secrets to keep himself young and spry). Fortunately, an apocalypse and the extinction of the rest of his species knocked his ego down a few notches, though that doesn't stop him from throwing as much shade as is legal. Casual flings are his fave. He's been fond of First Aid for a while and when he found out his real identity, well. He couldn't resist a bit of fun! If you want to read the intro to this scene, check [here](http://fellpyrean.tumblr.com/post/127524650046/why-hello)! It's very short.
> 
> Next chapter will be a very long one. Please look forward to it!


	7. stuck in a cave(tm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this back in July as a birthday present for cytokiine
> 
> i hope you guys like it
> 
> tags: canon typical violence, stuck in a cave™, dodgy predacon biology & aphrodesiacs, noncon/dubcon, sticky, oral sex, somewhat rough sex, barbs/knotting

First Aid’s spark thudded in his chest. His vents gasped for air in the deepening dark of the cave,  cool and moist, but not enough to help cool his frame.

 

He could hear it behind him. Screaming roars that made his coding crawl and the heavy thud of clawed feet, rocks shattering against its hide. It was coming for him.

 

Hunting him.

 

Energon crystals glowed in the walls, guiding him down narrow tunnels as he fled. They were probably the only reason the predacon wasn’t spitting flames after him; an explosion down here would be deadly to First Aid, and possibly even enough to damage the beast. And if the blast itself couldn’t get through its armor, several tons of rock would do the job…. Maybe.

 

He could only guess it was made out of whatever alloy Shockwave had armored himself in; he’d watched their best weaponry ping off it like water, and had a feeling that something that _primal_ wouldn’t be stopped by anything as mundane as rocks.

 

And it was catching up to him. Even if it had to squirm and claw against the walls, it was gaining. Tears pricked behind his visor.

 

_I’m going to offline here._

 

He had been so hopeful when Ultra Magnus had turned their ship towards Earth. Those Autobot signals, scattered as they were, had made his spark sing. It had been _centuries._ Never would he have guessed his spark would beat its last on this backwater planet.

 

Tripping and flailing as he slid on water-smoothed stone, he launched down another path. His optics widened. At the end of the tunnel, he could see it: a faint beam of sunlight.

 

He ran as fast as he could, praying to Primus that the light ahead would be an exit, some path to the surface. That the others would be there, if only so he wouldn’t die alone if… when the predacon caught up to him. He had spent too long alone on Delphi. Even Wheeljack would be a welcome face.

 

He was disappointed on both counts.

 

Sunlight streamed through a fissure in the ceiling. Crystalline stalactites dripped from the edges like fangs, their mirrors surrounding him in a razor sharp maze as he skidded to a stop. Cliffs too sheer to climb jutted out around the edges of the cave as he spun, hunting for a way out that wasn’t there.

 

If he had more time, maybe. But he was a grounder, and a small one. And the predacon… The first time he’d ever glimpsed it flashed through his processor. A monstrous body that shimmered like molten bronze. Its wings had been large enough to black out the stars as it reared and roared, sounding every bit like the ancient horror it was. In an open cavern like this, it would have more than enough room to fly after him, even if he did somehow manage to climb high enough that it couldn’t just pluck him off the rocks.

 

First Aid tried to squash his panic, think of what a real Wrecker would do, but a snarl from the passage behind him crashed a fresh wave over him. He turned. His hands clenched to hide his fear as he watched its claws flash through clouds of dust. The rocks crumbled easily beneath their force, slashed and pulverized out of its way.

 

His spark shuddered. A few moments at best were all that remained before he’d find himself under those claws. And… he might not be a Wrecker, but he refused to offline cowering. Medics weren’t defenseless. Maybe… maybe his EMP. As he watched the predacon claw its way free, its hide scraping the rocks and coming away flawless, he raised his arm, EMP mod clicking out. The optics should be vulnerable. He just had to make the shot.

 

Dust and gravel rolled like water off its body as it straightened up. Its thorny crown of horns gleamed in the dust-fogged air, its wings rising in dark, gold-rimmed shapes that billowed out, brushing aside fog and stone with equal ease. The beast towered over him, filling the room. His arm shook. Sparks flickered weakly along the prongs of his EMP as the predacon tilted its head, those golden optics focusing on him. Its fangs parted, chest glowing deep orange as it breathed in and _purred._

 

Too much.

 

The shot fired. Yellow-pink sparks sprayed off the plating of its neck, drawing no more response from the dragon than a curious sniff at the unmarred metal. And turned back towards him. Its bared fangs looked like a grin as it chuffed in an unmistakable imitation of laughter.

 

His energon stilled in his lines. His arm fell back to his side as he closed his optics, back pressed against a thick pillar of stone. Gravel crunched as it stepped closer, its purrs louder and louder until its hot breath washed over him.

 

Any second now, that jaw would close around him, snap his struts

 

He could _hear_ its systems purring, feel the warmth of its massive frame on his sides, smell energon and metal with each vent. It was too close.

 

Then something pinged. A thud against the rock.

 

The predacon snorted.

 

First Aid heard a beep. A familiar beep.

 

There, next to the predacon’s foot lay one of Wheeljack’s grenades.

 

He didn’t hear the others. All he heard was the countdown.

 

Then nothing.

 

_________

  
  


Harsh ringing echoed through First Aid’s processor. His entire frame felt wrong. Error reports refused to register; his processor moved at the speed of sludge. Groaning, he tried to focus. Something cool and solid beneath him. A berth? No… Too uneven, too rough. He tried to raise a hand, tried to online his sensors to analyze it, but nothing happened. He gave it a tug. Something shifted that time; a soft, skitter of falling stone.

 

The grenade. It must have blown open the floor of the cave. He cursed under his breath; he’d _told_ Wheeljack to be careful with those things. He’d had dreams about it! Slagging Wrecker and his slagging reckless… everything! ‘Be the Wreckers’ medic,’ they’d said! ‘It’ll be fun, and the view ain’t half-bad either!’

 

He should have walked away. Should have stayed on Delphi but no. No! He just _had_ to be lured in by the supposed glamor and the thought of tank alts and integrated weaponry and sidelong smiles from a long-deactivated mech whose charm had really ceased to woo him after the 27th time he’d been taken out of recharge to fix a room full of _idiots_ who thought _teamwork_ and _avoiding serious injuries_ were for _other_ mechs.  

 

If he got out of this, he was going to take one of Wheeljack’s grenades and shove it up his fragging-- A rock thunked onto his helm.

 

Air rushed from his vents. Right. More pressing matters. It took a manual reboot to get his optics online, and even then they flickered to life reluctantly behind his shattered visor. Their blue light caught in the web-like cracks, too bright, his processor throbbing before he offlined them again.

 

Well then. He could wait.

 

Something warm--warm and comforting against the cool damp of the cave--laved over his cheek, stirring him to an unexpected sight: a mech peering down at him. Their breath wafted over his face before they nodded, curt, drawing his attention to the impressive set of horns he could just make out in the darkness. Even undamaged, his optics hadn’t been forged to work well in light this dim, but there was no missing the veins of yellow lighting across their frame. But… no Autobot he knew of on Earth had biolights that colour.  

 

As they pried away the last shattered pieces of his visor from his face, their sharp, sharp fingers came into focus.

 

No Autobot had those, either.

 

Spark whirring weakly, he laid there trying to keep his venting even as their hand vanished into the darkness, only to feel it lower, tracing down his frame. His optics adjusted slowly, able to trace out what seemed to be thorned pauldrons that alone dwarfed his own frame. _Ohhh_ they were big. Big and close enough that, as the ringing in his head died down, he could hear their smooth, steady breaths that seemed to rumble low in their chest, the well-oiled slide of their joints as they moved around in the darkness so near to his frame.

 

He shuttered his optics and inhaled.

 

Some kliks had passed, First Aid letting himself listen to the growl of their systems, before he realized he could feel more of his frame. Still dull, still wrong, but… coming back, piece by piece, accompanied by the shift and clunk of solid rock, and something warm and wet on his plating.

 

First, on his arm, cradled in their delicate claws. His first thought was that it was energon. He was injured, after all. Considerable energon loss wasn’t out of the picture. But when he finally managed to pull up a status report on his internal fluid levels, they were surprisingly normal. But the wetness persisted.

 

He tried lifting his head, struggling against the stiffness of his frame and gasped; a soft, vulnerable noise in the darkness. The other mech… chuffed?

 

First Aid froze. Of course. There was only one mech who could be down here, one mech that made those sounds. Their claws gently cupped his neck and lifted his head, guiding him to sit upright, just enough for him to clearly see the golden glow of their optics and the fangy grin on their face.

 

“Relax, little medic,” the predacon purred, stroking First Aid’s cheek. “I am to bring you back alive.”

 

Then they leant, nuzzling at his neck, and licked him.

 

First Aid winced. The predacon huffed and moved back in, continuing to lick his neck until he could feel the slick-stickiness of it, the thin, drying layer of warmth on his cables. Only when a terrified whimper edged out of his vocalizer did they stop. Their horns glinted in the light of his optics as they looked up again, gaze meeting his own and sighed. Gently, they resumed stroking his helm.

 

“Your self-repairs are not working.”

 

The medic stared up at them. A frustrated huff, laden with embers, answered him. Lifting First Aid’s hand--singed and damaged from the blast--the predacon pointedly raised it to their mouth. Their tongue coiled around one finger before it was entirely enveloped in warmth and wet as the predacon sucked on it, slow and luxurious, and First Aid couldn’t stop himself from whimpering again at the sight, let alone the way it felt: even dulled and damaged, his hands were packed with sensory receptors. Receptors that… began recovering.

 

There was no denying it. The longer his finger stayed there, rolled against their tongue, the more sensation returned to it, the easier gasps slipped from his throat until they finally released it. A strand of saliva glinted in the light of their flickering systems before one last swipe over his fingertip broke it. He could have sworn there was a curious edge to their gaze as they glanced back and forth between his wet finger and his face.

 

He felt warm. Too warm. Without his visor it felt all too-obvious when he jerked his optics away, staring determinedly into the darkness. At least his voice didn’t waver when he finally spoke, even if his face was still noticeably flushed.

 

“Your... saliva contains repair nanites, then?”

 

They nodded.

 

He had to admit it was impressive. Practical. Dare he say, logical. After all, from what he knew of predacons, they weren’t supposed to have alt forms like… like this one did. Treating their wounds would have been a struggle. Energon-borne nanites could only do so much, and while they were durable beyond even the strongest Cybertronians, records had done little to hide how vicious they had been in combat.

 

“My kind did not spark medics as your species did.” They laid his hand gently back upon the stone, claws ghosting over the wrecked remains of his EMP. “Fortunately for you, however, there is not much our nanites cannot fix.”

 

With that, they evidently decided to demonstrate exactly how potent they were.

 

Each stroke of their tongue against his neck lapped away some of the pain, the stiffness, as their nanites eased into First Aid’s weakened system, tugging soft, satisfied noises from his throat . The warmth of their frame, too, was a welcome relief for his stiff struts. He barely noticed himself curling closer as their frame dwarfed his own, a heavy hand resting on either side.

 

A growl, deep and low in their frame, jerked the medic out of his moment of bliss. Their bodies were pressed together, too close, too intimate. The predacon’s mouth rested just beneath his audial, their breath hot and heavy against the mesh of his neck. Too much.

 

He squirmed, trying to get just. Just a little more space between them. Far enough that he couldn’t feel heat washing over him, couldn’t feel the steady pulse of their spark through their plating. The predacon rewarded his struggles by pressing closer, snarling against him before those fangs pressed into his mesh. Their clawed hands pinned him as the pressure grew, threatening to puncture his cables, plunge those fangs in.

 

All he could do was whimper.

 

It would be so easy for those fangs to split his mesh open. Compared to the predacon, First Aid was laughably fragile. He should be a mess. Panic should have had him trembling, too afraid to twitch a single finger. But there was something else instead. Something that made him bite his lip behind his faceplate. _No. Not now._

 

He’d always liked big mechs, after all. And now he had one, literally armed to the teeth, pinning him down and demanding his submission and his processor _must_ have taken a serious hit because that really should not have made him want to squirm harder or make his temperature spike upwards and ohhhh no oh no this was not good, not good at all. Maybe the predacon wouldn’t notice. Maybe--.

 

“Ahh, medic…” The predacon inhaled, drinking in his scent. “I am glad you agree.”

 

They bit down. Hard enough to draw energon and, unfortunately, make First Aid cry out in delight. Their breath burned hot, but neither the heat nor the flare of pain could cover the strange tingle that joined them in the next moment. Each moment those fangs stayed buried in his neck made him squirm more, made the pleasant warmth spreading from the bite more pronounced until he openly whimpered, hands grasping at any plating he could reach. Energon and saliva trickled down his neck. His optics fluttered. Their plating scraped against his own, rough and harsh, but all his attention focused on their thigh nudging between his legs, pressing up against his interface paneling. And how could the medic resist such an offer?

 

Words of relief fell from his lips, muffled behind his mask, as he steadied his grip and began to rub up against them. First Aid left no doubt how grateful he was, awkward as his movements were, and even if his words came out as desperate babble, the quick build of lubricants dripping from the seams of his valve cover made up for it.

 

Purring growls rumbled in their chest. The predacon’s clawed hands stroked down his small frame, dipping into seams, exploring. Testing each one for a reaction and no gasp, no shiver escaped their notice. Claws traced through his lubricants, catching on the edges of his panels and slipping easily enough to make the medic flush. His frame was too ready. The thought flitted through his processor and was all too-easily brushed aside when the predacon sucked on his neck before finally releasing him, licking their stained mouth almost absently as they raised their slicked claws to their face.

 

Lubricants dribbled down their claws as they turned their hand, humming curiously before they lapped up one escaping trail, optics glittering at the way First Aid’s biolights stuttered and flared. They needed no more encouragement than that to slip each claw into their mouth, one by one, sucking them clean. They didn’t break optic contact with him even once.

 

_Primus._

 

His spark skipped as they grinned down at him, finger popping out of their mouth. Their hands slid down to his thighs and they moved with them, sinuous as their true form. First Aid struggled upwards, processor spinning, neck aching, optics widening in disbelief and a _need_ to see this as their helm dipped between his thighs and their tongue pressed against his panels. And into his eager valve the next moment. They held his thighs open with ease, his trembling struggles only encouraging them to delve deeper, lap up his fluids and purr deliciously warm breaths against him. By the time they edged upwards and wrapped their lips around his outer node and _sucked,_ First Aid’s face plate had snapped open, leaving nothing to muffle the way he keened into the darkness. He let himself fall backwards, legs spread around their horned helm and just. Enjoyed.

 

What they lacked in experience they made up for in pure enthusiasm. And First Aid might have… might have reached down to guide them, steering them or holding them in place by a horn. He didn’t miss the coiling warmth spreading wherever they touched, or the way it melded with the charge building in his frame; snapping through him, his fingers clenching tight around their horn as he tugged them up into a clumsy and desperate kiss.

 

Their purring jumped to a growl, possessive and eager. First Aid moaned and clung to them, tasting himself on their tongue, his energon on their lips as their fangs pricked and cut him. Strong hands held his waist, stroking his plating, edging lower just enough to make him squirm and buck as he gasped into their mouth.

Then they pulled back. His hands skittered over their plating as they straightened up, taking their heat and weight with them; he could swear their optics weren’t the only part of them glowing with fiery promise anymore, but he didn’t have time to do more than reach up for them before they grabbed him and flipped him over. The medic scrambled to push himself up from the stone, only to feel one of their hands rest firmly on his back. Their weight returned, so close he could feel warmth rolling off their frame.

“Stay.” Their lips nipped at his neck, almost playful, before they leant back  once more. Their free hand stroked his thigh, petting the tender spots near his valve before they carefully dipped a knuckle inside him, just for a moment. First Aid bit his lip and stared down at his hands. Trembling on the stone.

He heard a soft _snik_ of plating. First Aid squeezed his optics shut. That had to be their spike. Their hand on his back moved to his waist as they shifted behind him, lining up. And then they began to press into him. Slowly. His mouth dropped open. Their spike was thick, but the head eased him open for the rest, pressing in deep with agonizingly cautious thrusts. His system sang in delight, focusing everything in on the ridged spike stretching him, the claws gripping his waist that tightened each time his valve clenched and clung to them.

At last, their plating pressed flush to his own. Almost unbelievably. His thighs shook, his breaths little more than wanton whimpers as they ran a hand over his stomach, bucking their hips in delight to feel themself through his stretched mesh. 

 One hand pressed the medic’s chest down to the ground, forcing him to shift. A much better angle for them, if their appreciative growl was anything to go by. The other hand tightened. First Aid’s spark fluttered in anticipation as they pulled back, sliding out of him so easily.

And then they slammed into him. The medic screamed, only to be muffled by their claws over his mouth. Their earlier restraint seemed forgotten; each thrust came harder, faster, grinding into him and jolting his frame as they chased their own pleasure. They didn’t slow at all when First Aid overloaded, biting down on their claws with his dull little teeth as charge crackled over his frame. If anything, it urged them on.

 

First Aid had fantasized about something like this. He’d lain in his berth, imagining a large, strong mech pinning him, fragging him until his valve was sore. But this. The real thing was better than he could have imagined. Between the nanites swarming through his lines and the predacon fragging him so hard he could _hear_ each thrust, feel his paint scraping onto rock as he was pushed back and forth. Even their claws digging into his plating hard enough to leave marks made him scream and beg as their wings flared above him, as their teeth dug into his shoulder.

Their rhythm turned rougher. Less full thrusts, more rough, wild grinding while hilted in his tight valve as they snarled against his neck. Charge jumped between them and all too soon, the predacon rammed in one last time, moaning and growling their pleasure as their spike pulsed. First Aid moaned, trembling on them, feeling the flood of transfluid spill deep and thick inside him. And… something else, too. A pull from their spike, each time the predacon rocked their hips back. It felt like something….

He covered his face.

Rows of barbs locked them together, ensuring First Aid would be forced to take every last drop they had to give. Their frame vibrated with contented purring and occasionally shuddered as a fresh wave of charge washed over them. Their claws stroked First Aid’s sides, hooking between his plates and seeking sensitive wires to tweak and pull. Warm, open kisses lathed the medic’s damaged shoulder plating.

First Aid caught a glimpse of their face as he gasped against the cool stone: utter contentment. Energon and lubricant-stained lips parted, optics half-shuttered. They nuzzled his cheek, soft and affectionate. As linked as they were, even that small shift moved their spike, made the barbs catch further in his valve walls. One of their hands stroked First Aid’s delicate mesh belly before slipping down, faster than the medic could react, and tweaked his outer node. His outer node, sensitive and right on the edge of his stretched valve lips.

The sudden tweak made the medic jerk, a conflicted yelp as the tender spot was teased and worked by sharp, careful claws and rolled between their fingertips. But each twitch of his hips shifted their spike. Their fingers were merciless. Their own overload was winding down, but they seemed hell bent on making the medic peak again and admittedly, the thought of his valve clenching, tightening around those rows of spines, lubricant and transfluid oozing out around them was… More than appealing. Or maybe… He moaned, pressing his aft up against their hips and relishing the heavy weight above him. Maybe he’d be too full of them for anything to get out.

He moved into their fingers as much as he could, gasping openly as warmth coiled in his belly and small sparks pinged between their plating. In the quiet of the cave, he could hear each wet movement, each scrape of metal. Their optics, still hazy with pleasure, fixed on his face. Close enough that First Aid could feel their breath wash over him. Another kiss found his cheek as they began to thrust, shallowly, still restrained by the spines, but just enough to make the little medic sob in delight.

“Let go, little medic,” they said.

Another grind, right up into his sensitive nodes, another leisurely roll of their claws, and First Aid overloaded. Hard and screaming this time, the predacon echoing his cries as he clenched tight around their spike. Lubricant oozed out around them, glimmering with silver from one last spurt of transfluid that filled the mech to the brim and dripped down his shaking thighs.

His frame was still hot, fans and vents gulping in air when the barbs finally slipped free. The predacon moved off him slowly and First Aid collapsed to the floor the instant their hands let go. Exhaustion settled deep into his frame. Fluid slowly collected between his thighs, sticky and cooling beneath him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to move. His optics fluttered shut. Dim soreness had already begun to twinge at the edges of his valve and, vaguely, he wondered if he’d be able to get up at all, let alone walk.

He lost track of time as he lay there. His frame cooled slowly, and even once his temperature had dropped, it settled several degrees higher than normal. His fuzzy processor had just begun to muse over this when he felt something nudge at his helm. A questioning chuff followed it.

The predacon had returned to its beast form. There was no longer a trace that the thoroughly-used medic could see of their fragging, unless he counted the tenderness to their  nudges. They were checking on him. He managed to raise a hand and pat their cheek. That seemed to be enough for them, thankfully. Even their tongue lapping between his legs, cleaning him, applying fresh nanites to the sore mesh, wasn’t quite enough to stir the charge back into his system.

Which was a good thing. Barely minutes after the predacon had finished grooming him and First Aid managed to close up his panels and settled against them to rest, green light flooded the cave.

Conflicted hope stirred in the medic’s spark, only to be brutally crushed as none other than Shockwave stepped through.

The infamous scientist cocked his head, framed in bright light. He stared down at the small Autobot lying vulnerable and whole between the beast’s claws. The burn damage that remained on his plating.

And the telling paint transfers and claw marks that covered his frame.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading


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